I stopped at the traffic light at the intersection of Park and Sunol on my way to pick up the kids from school.
I remembered it clearly--of receiving the phone call on my way home from work that day, and making the detour to the accident scene at this same intersection. Of getting out of the car slowly and seeing his crumpled motorcycle lying on its side. Of exploded cans of paint, splayed on the road. I did not see any blood. Of the crowd of spectators standing on the sidewalk--as if watching a sporting event-- and someone commenting that motorcycles were dangerous. Of walking up to the female police officer directing traffic and the slow words making their journey from brain to mouth--who's mouth, who's words were speaking?
The police officer continued to calmly direct traffic. I stood there, now mute, taking in the scene. She told me that the paramedics had already taken him to the hospital and I knew I should be getting back in my car, but I continued to stand there as if waiting for the next clue. I stared at the paint. I heard the words "hit and run".
A flurry of activity caught my eye across the street. I saw the arrest. She hadn't run very far and was drunk. I tried to remember what our disagreement had been about that morning-- something about painting the bathroom.